Page 5

CHAPTER FOUR

Tildie

The morning light filters through the faded curtains of my tiny trailer back behind the bar.

I've been awake for hours, staring at the water stains on the ceiling, trying to process everything that happened yesterday.

Ruger's buying the bar.

Those four words keep circling in my mind like vultures.

I should be relieved.

My job is safe.

My home is secure.

The bar will stay open.

Instead, anxiety creeps up my spine—the same feeling I had when Marco first started "helping" with my father's gambling debts.

When his generosity gradually transformed into ownership of my life.

I roll out of bed, pad to the bathroom, and splash cold water on my face.

The woman in the mirror looks tired, cautious.

Six months of freedom, and I'm still carrying the shadows Marco cast.

But Ruger's not Marco.

That's what scares me most—the hope that he might actually be different.

Last night's text conversation replays in my head as I dress for work.

His honesty surprised me.

No grand gestures or empty promises, just truth: Because losing that bar would break Ellie, and I've seen enough of her broken.

Every instinct tells me to keep my walls up, but something about him makes me want to peek over them.

To see if there's really something different on the other side.

I head out of my trailer and walk right into Backroads, Ellie's already prepping for breakfast.

She looks lighter today, the strain of the past months lifted from her shoulders. "Morning," she calls, flipping pancakes. "Sleep okay?"

"Not really," I admit, tying my apron. "Still processing."

She nods, understanding without needing details. "Trust takes time. Ruger knows that."

"Does he?" I grab coffee mugs, setting them on the counter. "Men like him are used to getting what they want, when they want it."

"True." She slides pancakes onto a plate. "But he also knows the difference between getting and earning."

Before I can respond, the bell over the door jingles.

My heart jumps to my throat until I see it's just our first regular customer, Old Pete, who comes in every morning at 7:30 sharp.

"Morning, ladies," he greets, settling into his usual booth. "Beautiful day."

I bring him coffee, grateful for the distraction of my morning routine.

Pour coffee, take orders, deliver food.

Simple tasks requiring just enough focus to quiet my racing thoughts.

By 10 AM, the breakfast rush winds down.

I'm wiping tables when my phone vibrates in my pocket.

The screen is still cracked from the drop the other day, but functional enough to read:

Ruger:

Morning, darlin'. Bringing paperwork by around noon. Save me some pie?

Such a normal text, almost like we're normal people with normal lives.

Me:

Blueberry or apple?

Ruger:

Dealer's choice.

I start to smile, but stop myself.

As much as I like him, I don’t want to.

I don’t want to put myself at risk, to let my walls down… even if he is being the sweetest thing ever.

At 11:45, I'm unnecessarily rearranging bottles behind the bar when the familiar rumble of motorcycles pulls into the lot.

Not just Ruger—three bikes.

The door swings open, and he enters first, followed by a man I recognize as Ounce, the VP, and another older man in a suit who doesn't fit the MC vibe at all.

Ruger fills the room instantly.

It's not just his size or the leather cut declaring his status.

It's something in the way he carries himself—like gravity bends around him.

His eyes find mine immediately. "Blueberry?"

"Apple," I counter, pointing to the fresh slice waiting at his usual stool.

The smile that breaks across his face transforms him—lightening the hard edges, revealing glimpses of the man beneath the President patch.

"Even better." He settles onto the stool while the other men take a booth. "How are you?"

"Fine."

"Tildie." His voice drops, serious now. "How are you, really ?"

The direct question catches me off guard.

Marco never wanted real answers, only the responses that pleased him.

"Nervous," I admit. "About everything changing."

He studies me, his dark eyes searching mine. "Not everything will change. Just the parts that need to."

"And who decides what needs to change? You?"

"The bar was going under. That's fact, not opinion."

He's right, though I'm reluctant to admit it. I've noticed the dwindling inventory, the empty shifts when Ellie would send the other members of staff home to save money, then it was just me and her. The signs were there for anyone paying attention.

"You didn't answer my text last night," he says, cutting into his pie.

"Which one?"

"About what you're looking for." He takes a bite, watching me. "Safe spaces. People you can trust."

I busy myself wiping the already clean counter. "I thought I was being clear."

"Crystal clear. But I'm wondering what makes a space safe for you. What makes someone trustworthy?"

The question feels too intimate, too close to places I don't let people see.

"Time," I finally say. "Consistency. Actions matching words."

"Fair enough." He nods, respect in his expression. "I can work with that."

"I'm not a project."

"Never said you were." He finishes his pie, pushing the plate forward. "You're a woman who deserves to feel safe. I respect that."

Before I can respond, Ellie emerges from the kitchen. "Ryan, honey! Didn't hear you come in."

"Just going over some details with the banker. We should be ready for you now."

I watch them head to the booth, feeling oddly alone in his absence.

How does he do that?

Create a bubble where the rest of the world fades, then leave me disoriented when it pops?

For the next hour, I serve other customers while taking a peek at their meeting every once in a while.

Serious faces, papers passed back and forth, signatures. The formal transfer of Ellie's dream into Ruger's hands.

When they finish, the banker shakes hands all around and leaves.

Ruger approaches the bar again, looking pleased. "All set for now. Just waiting on final approval."

"That was fast."

He nods, keeping his tone neutral. "The club has connections."

I don't want to know what kind of connections speed up bank approvals. Some things are better left unquestioned.

"Ellie seemed happy," I offer.

"She's relieved. Bar stays open, she keeps managing and staying upstairs, you keep your job, and the trailer out back. Wins all around for everyone."

"And what does the club win?"

His eyes sharpen, appreciating that I'm not looking away from the obvious question. "Legitimate business. Territory security. Goodwill."

I nod, understanding the unspoken part, too—money laundering, probably.

Convenient base of operations.

None of it sounds particularly sinister, which is almost disappointing.

I've built up the Saint's Outlaws in my mind based on what I know of the Grim Vultures.

"Ellie says you take lunch around two," he says. "Walk with me?"

My first instinct is to refuse. Walking alone with him feels too vulnerable, too much like dating.

But isn't that the point? To test him, to see if he's really different?

"Okay," I agree, surprising us both. "Just a short one."

Right at two, I hang up my apron and meet him outside.

The afternoon is warm but not yet stifling, hints of summer fading into early fall.

"Where to?" I ask.

"There's a little park two blocks over. Unless you had someplace else in mind?"

I shake my head, falling into step beside him.

We walk in silence for a minute, and I keep the gap between us, just the way I want it to be.

"You know," he says finally, "for someone who barely knows me, you seem to have a lot of opinions about who I am."

"I could say the same about you."

He chuckles, the sound warm and unexpected. "Fair enough. So let's fix that." He gestures between us. "Ask me anything. I'll tell you the truth."

"Anything?"

"Within reason. Club business has limits."

I consider this as we reach the small neighborhood park.

It's mostly empty—a few mothers with strollers, an old man feeding pigeons.

We settle on a bench under a maple tree, dappled sunlight playing across his features.

The irony strikes me—this dangerous-looking man in leather and denim, sitting peacefully in a family park in the middle of a weekday.

My question bursts out before I can reconsider. "Why did you exile your uncle instead of killing him?"

If he's shocked by my directness, he doesn't show it. "Family," he answers simply. "No matter what he did, he's my blood. My father's brother."

"I thought club justice was absolute."

"It is. But I get to decide what justice looks like." He turns slightly toward me. "Death would have been easier, maybe cleaner. But I couldn't do that to my father's memory."

His honesty hits me in the chest.

It's the opposite of what Marco would have done, who lied even when the truth would have served him better.

"Do you regret it now?"

"Sometimes. He's causing trouble again, is likely working with the Vultures."

I freeze. "The Grim Vultures, right?"

Any time I hear their name, my stomach drops.

He nods, watching my reaction carefully. "Yeah."

"Every time I hear that name, I feel sick," I admit. "It reminds me of part of why I left Pittsburgh."

Understanding dawns in his expression. "That's why you're jumpy. Not just running from a bad relationship—running from dangerous men."

"Yes."

The simple admission hangs between us. I've never said it so plainly before, not even to Ellie.

"And now I'm another dangerous man in your life," he says quietly.

"Are you in my life?"

His eyes find mine, serious and intent. "I'd like to be. If you'll let me."

The sincerity in his voice makes my chest tight.

This is where I should back away, maintain distance, protect myself.

Instead, I ask, "Why? You barely know me."

"I know enough." He shifts closer, not touching but near enough that I can feel his warmth. "I know you're loyal—took a pay cut to help Ellie. I know you're strong—left a situation most people stay trapped in. I know you're beautiful in a way that makes me forget I'm supposed to be thinking about club shit. Hell, you make me forget about a lot of shit, and sometimes I need that distraction."

My heart pounds so loudly I'm sure he can hear it. "That's attraction, not connection."

"Maybe. But I'd like the chance to find out which it is." He reaches out, slowly enough that I could pull away, and tucks a strand of hair behind my ear. "No pressure. No expectations. Just... possibility of something more."

His touch burns like ice against my skin—shocking, melting, leaving trails of sensation. I should move away. I should keep the barriers intact.

But God help me, I lean into his palm as it cups my cheek.

"I'm not looking for a relationship," I whisper.

"I'm not asking for one. Just asking you not to run before you know what you're running from."

He's not demanding commitment or possession, just opportunity.

"What happens if I say yes? To possibility?"

His thumb traces my bottom lip, the touch featherlight but electric. "Then we see where it leads. No rush. No pressure."

"And if I say no?"

"Then I respect that. Keep my distance unless you change your mind."

Simple as that. A choice.

The things Marco never let me have.

Maybe it's gratitude for that respect, or maybe it's the way the sun catches in his dark eyes, but I find myself leaning forward, closing the distance between us.

The first brush of his lips against mine is tentative, almost questioning.

When I don't pull away, he deepens the kiss, one hand sliding to the nape of my neck.

He tastes like coffee and something darker, richer.

His beard tickles my skin, a sharp contrast to the softness of his mouth.

Unlike Marco's demanding kisses that took and claimed, Ruger's kiss is sweet.

His hands stay gentle, giving me space to retreat if I want to.

Instead, I lean closer, my fingers clutching the leather of his cut.

Heat floods through me, a surge of want that's both thrilling and terrifying.

It's been so long since I've felt desire without fear shadowing it.

When we finally break apart, we're both breathing heavily.

His eyes have darkened, pupils blown wide with desire.

I can feel his restraint in the tension of his body, the careful way he eases back to give me space.

"That was..." I trail off, unable to find the right words.

"Yeah," he agrees, voice rough. "It was."

Reality crashes back as a child's laughter rings out across the park.

I'm suddenly remembering where we are, what we're doing.

Kissing the President of an MC in broad daylight, days after getting a threatening text from my ex.

What am I thinking?

"I should get back," I say, standing abruptly. "Lunch break's almost over."

He rises more slowly, studying my face. "You're panicking."

"I'm being responsible."

"Bullshit. You're running."

The accusation stings because it's true. "Maybe I have reason to."

"Because of what just happened, or because of what happened before I met you?"

The question hits home.

Am I reacting to Ruger, or to the ghost of Marco that still haunts every interaction I have with men?

"Both," I admit. "This—whatever this is—it complicates things. I can't afford complications right now."

"Life is complications," he says. "Question is which ones are worth navigating."

His perspective is so different from mine.

To him, problems are puzzles to solve.

To me, they're potential traps.

"I need to think," I say finally. "About all of this."

"Fair enough." He nods, giving me space. "Just don't overthink yourself into isolation. Not everyone is a threat, Tildie."

"You are," I whisper. "Just not in the way I expected."

Something shifts in his expression—understanding, maybe even vulnerability. "Same goes."

We walk back to the bar in silence, something between us shifting in that park.

At the door, he pauses. "I've got club business tonight. But I'll be by tomorrow to check on you and Ellie."

The simple statement of intent—he'll be back, I'll see him again—shouldn't send relief coursing through me. But it does.

"I'll be here," I say, the words carrying more weight than they should.

He nods, eyes lingering on my lips for a moment before he turns away.

I watch him stride to his bike, my eyes lingering a little too long at his toned ass.

Dammit.

I head inside, practically ripping myself away from Ruger, and Ellie takes one look at my flushed face.

"Good lunch?" she asks innocently.

"Don't start," I warn, tying my apron.

"Wasn't going to say a thing."

"Your face is saying plenty."

She grins, bumping my shoulder as she passes. "Just nice to see you looking more alive than scared for once."

The observation startles me, mostly because she's right.

For the first time in months, the dominant emotion coursing through me isn't fear.

It's excitement, and that might be the most frightening thing of all.

Working through the afternoon, I find myself touching my lips, remembering the feel of his against mine.

The way his beard scratched my skin, how his hands stayed gentle even as the kiss deepened.

How different it felt from the last time a man kissed me.

Marco's kisses were possessive, demanding.

Taking rather than sharing.

His hands would grip too tight, ensuring I couldn't pull away even if I wanted to.

Ruger held me like I was precious, like I might vanish if he pressed too hard.

It unsettles me, making me question everything I thought I knew about men with power, about danger and safety.

As I wipe down the bar for the fifth time, Ellie slides a shot of whiskey toward me.

"Medicinal," she insists. "You're going to wear a hole in the counter."

I take the shot, welcoming the burn. "How did you know Ruger was different from Striker?"

The question seems to surprise her, but she doesn't shy away. "Time. Actions. The little things that reveal character when no one's watching. Doesn't hurt that I raised that man when his ma died."

"What kind of little things?"

"He remembers how I take my coffee. Checks the locks on my door when he visits. Calls just because, not only when he needs something." She smiles softly. "And the way he looks at you? It's completely different from how Striker ever looked at me."

"How does he look at me?" I ask, almost afraid of the answer.

"Like you could very well be the light of his life," She refills my shot glass. "Just something to think about."

I'm still thinking about it hours later as I head back to my trailer.

The bar closed early on Ellie's insistence—"We're celebrating the sale, go rest!"—leaving me alone with my thoughts.

Inside, I double-check the locks before heading to the shower.

The hot water soothes my muscles but does nothing for my racing mind.

Wrapped in a towel, I pass the window and freeze.

A shadow moves in the parking lot by the bar—a man, tall and lean, standing beside a car I don't recognize.

My heart hammers as I press against the wall, peering carefully around the curtain.

The figure looks up toward the trailer, and for a moment, I swear it's Marco.

Then a car passes, headlights illuminating the lot, and I see it's just a customer from earlier retrieving something from his vehicle.

The adrenaline crash leaves me shaky.

I drop onto my bed, breathing deeply to calm myself.

This is what I'm afraid of—not just Marco finding me, but Marco ruining my ability to trust myself.

My phone buzzes on the nightstand.

Ruger:

Just checking you got home safe. Lock your doors.

Such a simple text.

Me:

I'm safe. Doors are locked.

Ruger:

Good. Sleep well, darlin'.

I stare at the screen, debating whether to tell him about the shadow, the moment of panic, about how easily fear still overtakes me.

Instead, I type:

Me:

About today...

The three dots appear immediately.

Ruger:

No regrets here. But if you have them, I understand.

Me:

No regrets. Just... things are complicated between us.

Ruger:

Life is. Sleep on it. I'll see you tomorrow.

He's not pushing, not demanding, just accepting whatever I'm able to give him, and that wins him some brownie points with me.

As I crawl under the covers, my lips still tingle with the memory of his kiss.

Getting involved with Ruger means entering his world.

A world that might overlap with Marco's in ways that could put us both in danger.